I can’t remember the very first box, although in hindsight I think simply the purchase of it must have made me giddy.
Crayons. He’s old enough for crayons.
In all of my enthusiasm for this super-exciting “next step” my son had graduated to, I am certain I purchased the 64-count box.
And we would have talked about the names of each of the colors, compared the light blue with the navy, lined them up in color groupings and counted them one-by-one. Maybe we chose our favorite colors, or talked about how the sun is usually colored yellow but looks white.
I’m pretty sure we could kill an hour or more with a simple 64-count box of crayons.
Because we had time to do that kind of thing back then. Back when time stood still it seemed—or at least on those long no-nap afternoons when Daddy traveled and Mommy was left to dinnertime chatter with someone who only talked about the garbage man. Back when the time it took to simply get out the door to preschool or the grocery store seemed to fill a morning.
The crayons, they multiplied.
Go out to your favorite chain restaurant for dinner? Come home with a tiny box of crayons, named with colors like “mac and cheese.” Crayons make great stocking stuffers, car-trip sanity savers, Easter basket fillers and birthday party favors.
One 64-count box of perfectly shaped crayons soon gives way to several plastic bins full of a jumble of odd colors and sizes that don’t quite go together. Favorites are worn down to nubs, while some never quite feel right and never even touch tip to paper.
This fall I started (again) to organize and rearrange what used to be our playroom and now is more of a game room.
It sounds cooler to teens if you call it that.
One plastic bin full of crayons remains.
Some are worn down, others broken in half and discarded, never to be used. There are multiple brands intermixed, some never used at all.
Like a jumble of things my kids tried. Things that either didn’t fit, felt wrong or left them wanting something more.
I wish that parenting them now was as simple as that brand-new 64-count box of crayons was. That I could once again offer them something that was full of possibilities and open to whatever their heart—and little fingers—could create.
Now? There’s no going back to that original box. I wouldn’t even be able to create a haphazard collection of the original colors from the remnants of childhood remaining in this plastic bin. In some odd way, this box of messed-up crayons has come to symbolize the trials and errors of my parenting. Some things worked beautifully, while others didn’t take.
I just can’t bring myself to throw them out.
Because you never know when someone might want to color again.